


From the New World

by blueberryscowler



Category: Bonanza, Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica - James A. Owen
Genre: Cartwright Curse, Gen, Time Travel, Time Travelling Fred, cotig weirdness plus bonanza weirdness, strangeness, young Emeriti
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberryscowler/pseuds/blueberryscowler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After several wrong decisions in matters of apprenticeship, Caveo Dickens made another choice. The young man he selected might be an unconventional choice, but that was nothing the older Caretaker cared about any more. What he needed was a final successor, and he had found the right man for it.</p><p>Adam Cartwright loved his family and his life on the Ponderosa, but his inner desire to see more of the world, and to do something different, if only for a while, tore him apart inwardly. When an old friend opened the doors to a whole new life for him, his excitement met reluctance, but he nonetheless accepted his incredible new task, not knowing what he would draw his family into.</p><p>The young Caretaker Jules had a more problematic occupation than he would have ever expected. At first he thought he could deal with it alone, without bothering his elders, but then he drew his newest fellow and his father and brothers into what might or might not be a misery.</p><p>A hundred years later, a girl who might or might not have been young, her companion, and her friend, a Caretaker of his day, decided to meet a dear friend, they had lost too soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The rests of dinner disappeared as the Feast Beasts served some very good brown and golden beverages, that could make your throat tickle and burn, which the residents of the Pygmalion Gallery gleefully awaited. There was an important meeting at Tamerlane House, important enough to make even most of the Elder Caretakers leave their paintings, but not quite important enough for Poe to show himself to the others, and they were happy, as Poe showing himself meant danger. But danger, found some of them, was still ahead, as Charles Dickens, once again, made a choice.  
  
"I think it's a good idea," said a young Caretaker, who was more familiar with his contemporary's choice than the others. "He's a good boy."  
  
"He's older than you, Sam," said Charles, with a mild smile, followed by a dismissive gesture from the young Caretaker named Sam. "Still a good boy," he said.  
  
"Good boy or not," said Mary, one of the Caretakers Emeriti, "he's not suited. We haven't even heard of him before."  
  
"Listen, gal," began Sam as he had a glass thrown in his direction. "Alright, Mrs Shelley. How many of us have been famous before we have been chosen? Yourself, and possibly a few of the Elders. Otherwise, it's been our experiences here that granted us fame outside of the Archipelago."  
  
Mary Shelley sighed and leaned back in her chair. "That is true," she said. "But his education..."  
  
"...is fine enough," said Charles, and took a bite from an apple, to not be forced to say any more.  
  
"I have heard his work is... _practical_ ," threw in Lord Byron.  
  
"Who allowed him to talk?" asked Shakespeare, which the others ignored.  
  
"So would yours have been, if that's what you've had depended on, my friend. He is interested, he does love music and the arts, but the circumstances of his life never allowed it to become his one priority. But is it yours? Is it your priority, over your families and loves, over your _occupation_? I dare say it isn't. And would you have become as devoted to the arts and sciences, if not for your _occupation_ , if not for _the book_? I say, Charlie chose right."  
  
Almost everyone in the room stared at Sam, who took another sip from his Scotch, with the exception of Charles, who looked at his apple, and Schubert, who appeared to see something no other human could grasp, per usual, that is. Then, for the first time that evening, not counting the comment on his pancake, Schubert spoke.  
  
"We never had such a discussion before. When Caveo Dickens announced a new Apprentice, we never questioned it. What a curious thing we do now, isn't it?"  
  
"Curious?" repeated Hawthorne with a scowl. "Franz, how could this be curious? I don't want to insult our friend, but his choices in Apprentices have always been disastrous! It is just natural that we grew to be careful."  
  
Charles took a deep breath and looked up from his apple. "I am by no means insulted, Nathaniel, but it is different this time. We never had a discussion such as this before, not because of my mistakes, but because of how my choices conformed with your idea of a good Caretaker, unlike now."  
  
Sam hit his glass on the table, causing the others to look at him again. "A cowboy from Nevada, for God's sakes. Is it too much for you? Do you really need a slick Oxbridge man, who knows all your works by heart and in the end betrays _the book_ by handing it over to that old Queen?" he asked, causing some of the much Elder Caretakers to chuckle mildly, while more recent Emeriti stared at him, in shock.  
  
"Samuel, you know that these are none of my problems," said Hawthorne, "and I am sure most of us would agree."  
  
"His character is ideal," said Charles. "That is, in truth, what made me choose him. Until now, I only decided with my head, and we all know what that lead to. But he feels right to me, he is the man."  
  
"But you can't keep your head out of it entirely," insisted Hawthorne. "Believe me, Charles, I want to support your choice and accept him, we all do, but we have to be certain."  
  
Sam was just ready to open his mouth in a response, as they all heard a knock at the large, ornamental door, and a young man with a French accent shouting: "Believing is Seeing."  
  
"Get in, Jules! It's an exciting discussion," said Sam, and the young man came in. "Charles over here wants to introduce another kiddo, so we won't be alone, when he retires. Sounds good, right?"  
  
The Frenchman named Jules said nothing, but took a seat beside his friend, frowning slightly.  
  
"Good evening, Jules. I'm glad you made it here safely, we will talk about your late arrival another time," said Hawthorne. "Samuel just wanted to talk about your possible future companion."  
  
"Exactly," said Sam. "His affections are ideal. He's intelligent, and a nice guy."  
  
Jules thanked a Feast Beast for his crêpe, and took a glass of Scotch from Sam, but before he began to eat, he asked a question: "He didn't attend Cambridge, didn't he?"  
  
"Of course not," said Charles and shook his head, but not without staring at Sam, who winked at him.  
  
"Then, what is your problem?" he asked, and the other Caretakers looked at each other.  
  
"Actually," said da Vinci, "there is no problem."  
  
"I assume," began Hawthorne and leaned back in his chair, "we have a new Apprentice Caretaker of the _Imaginarium Geographica_. That is, if he agrees."  
  
Jules scowled at that, but preferred to focus on his next crêpe, which magically appeared on his plate.  
  
"Ya must be hungry, Frenchie," whispered Sam, making sure not to look at him. "Where have you just been?"  
  
"Babylon," he muttered back. "We're in plenty of trouble, I tell you," he added, as he took another sip of Scotch to wash down his blueberries. "But you know what? I will better go to bed. Hawthorne will interrogate me tomorrow and I don't want to be tired then."  
  
"Or hung-over," chuckled Sam and emptied his friend's glass.


	2. From Home to Home

**Scene One –** _ **Arrivals**_  
  
The birch trees and apple trees and oaks were exceptionally beautiful on that September day, and so were the wide meadows that slowly lost their freshly green colour, and the fields that were ready to harvest, and no one could see them but the shy man in the blue suit.  
  
He saw them, because he knew them well, and so he would notice. For the other passengers of that train, it was just a typical landscape, nice but generic, but for him, they were old companions he would only meet when he was on the way from one home to another.  
  
He was on to return, if only for a while, to his first home, which he had not seen for many years. The man was born over there, and first returned as he went to University nearby. He used to visit his home town on some occasions, but he didn't find the time, or an important enough reason to do so for a much too long time. Now, he held a good enough cause in his hands. It was a telegram he received just a day earlier, and, in the manner of all telegrams, it was short, and clear. He could not have told his father or his brothers about the content of said telegram, as they would not have understood why he would follow it. An invitation to a picnic seemed just too irrelevant, in particular when it came from a man he last saw dead in an open coffin, more than a decade ago.  
  
Thus, Adam decided he would simply tell them that he would visit an old friend, who might need his help, which was, he thought, at least not a full lie. Why would an old, dead man call a former student of his other old, dead friend, if not for help? That would not have appeared too plausible to his father and brothers, especially not from the man they thought to be the most rational and especially wary of them all. Of course, he was also regarded as a bit of the nutcase out of the family, but they never truly saw these characteristics as two sides of the same coin, and so, he was certain, his father would not have let him go.  
  
He might have told him that he sensed a conspiracy and expected to meet someone connected to his friend's death, he thought as he intangibly greeted a willow, but he didn't want to tell anything but Truth.  
  
“Next stop, Boston,” was heard from the gangway, and so Adam stood up and took his old, single suitcase from the luggage rack, careful not to add a scratch to the already worn looking dark red wallpaper.  
  
As he stopped on the ground of the railroad station, Adam could see that few people were on his train. He could also see, that it would begin to rain, much to his pleasure, as he had not seen or felt or tasted rain in a long time. A cab went by, but Adam let a young woman climb it instead, as he was not expected to reach his destination until the next hour.  
  
“That's very gentlemanly of you,” said the young woman, and she was a very handsome brunette with warm blue eyes. “Won't you share the cab with me? Where are you heading for?”  
  
“No thank you, Mam. I am heading for the park,” explained Adam, and at that she made a grimace.  
  
“The park, in this weather? Why don't you go to the hotel?” she asked, and Adam knew what answer she would hope for and which he would not give.  
  
“Because, Mam, I am heading for the park. Have a very nice day.”  
  
At that, Adam nodded to her, closed the door of the cab and went to sit under a canopy, with his suitcase behind his legs, and took out the telegram again, only to put it back into his pocket, as the rain began to increase. A nervous and thin young man, standing on the platform, greeted Adam shyly, but hastened away as Adam signalled him to get under his canopy, and out of the rain. With a scowl, he leaned back and gazed around, but all he saw were busy people, blurred by the rainfall, until another cab came by, which no one else wanted to take. It did, in fact, look quite undesirable in comparison to what most of them were used to. The cabby and horse looked good-humoured and sober, but past their prime. The cab itself was well-made but dirty and scratched.  
  
“To the park, please,” said Adam as he climbed the vehicle, and the cabby did as he was told without turning around or saying anything. The horse was a golden chestnut gelding, certainly once handsome, and he trotted his way from the platform, to the city.  
  
“How old is he?” asked Adam, who usually didn't enjoy small talk, nor felt obligated to talk with a cabby - who did, after all? - but it was useless, as he got no answer but a smile. He was, for a reason unknown to him, uncomfortable with the silence coming from the man.  
  
As they went on, the streets felt stranger and stranger to Adam, but he joined the cabby's silence, trusting in him to find the way to the park better than he would. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I have become a stranger myself by now_ , a thought he didn't like at all. There was no familiar tree or building, and Adam wondered if it was truly the right way from the railroad station to the Boston Park.   
  
The cabby had elegant hands although his nails were dirty and he held the reins perfectly. He had a noble, and stern face, with unnecessary fat making it look friendlier and gentler than it might once have been. Questioning his sense of orientation would not have any kind of useful result, and so Adam said nothing at all and closed his eyes instead.  
  
After what might have been half an hour or an entire month, the cab came to stop and when Adam opened his eyes again, he saw the park. He quickly took his suitcase and jumped off the cab quickly, and paid the cabby, who left without a word.  


* * *

  
**Scene Two – _The Soft Place_**  
  
Gratefully, Adam realised that the park looked just like he remembered it, although he was surprised of how far Autumn had progressed by now. Most leaves were golden or brown, and many of them had fallen, now covering the ground, causing a beautiful contrast to the grey of the light rain and the fog. It could have very well been late October.  
  
As with the railroad station, there were not many people around, which was not surprising when considering the weather. As the young woman said, who would visit the park in cold rain? Adam did not sigh, but he took a deep breath, put the suitcase handle from his right hand to the left, and followed a path through the park.  
  
Visually, hardly anything had changed, except for the occasional bench, but atmospherically the park felt different. It was not the light, and content place he used to know. At first, Adam thought there was a kind of melancholy around the place, an false idea, as he quickly realised, and as such attributed to the weather and his own feelings. The park was not melancholic, it radiated an underlying exuberance of a strength that turned into a bittersweet exhaustion when touching a human being.  
  
Near weeping willow by the river was a large, cream coloured umbrella, and below the umbrella sat - “Mr Mills!” exclaimed Adam and walked faster, although he did not run until he freed himself of conceited maturity. After all, why should a grown man not run like a child to greet a dead friend?  
  
The man got up with a surprising swiftness, and he had a friendly face with a wide mouth and dark, deep set eyes. “How are you, Adam, dear boy?” he asked Adam looked at him in surprise.  
  
“ _I_ am fine, Mr Mills. But how, in this world, are you? I mean, _how_ are you in this world?”  
  
The old man, who didn't look quite as old, now that Adam could see his face better, sighed and looked at him, with smiling eyes in a serious face. “That is a long story, and I am not a storyteller, so we will have to postpone this matter. Sit down and have some cake, Adam. It's incredible.”  
  
Adam did as he was told and sat on a large, blue picnic blanket beside Mr Mills. There were three different tea kettles and plenty of filigree cups, several kinds of cake, four plates with sandwiches and pale cream coloured cuboids that appeared to be burned, all safe and dry below the large umbrella.  
  
“Isn't that a bit too much for two?” asked Adam and the other man shrugged.  
  
“The feast beasts will take further care of it,” he said and took a sandwich. _He is actually able to eat_ , found Adam and stared at him, then at the food. He cautiously took a sandwich of the same kind, it had cucumbers on it, and ate it. It was absolutely real.  
  
“Might I ask if you are alive?”  
  
“No,” said the man and took a sip of tea that smelled like roses.  
  
“I might not ask or you are not alive?” Adam persisted and the man frowned.  
  
“I don't think I could answer either question properly right now, my boy. I told you, I would tell that story another time. It is not relevant today.”  
  
“A man invites me for a picnic, thousands of miles away from home, in the rain, and it is not relevant if he is alive or not?” Adam asked.  
  
“Well, yes, indeed. It is not relevant, not today. I am _alive_ enough to talk about plenty of other things. What are you alive for if not for living?”  
  
At that, Adam had no response, and stared in his teacup, which he did not realise he had filled. He took a sip from it, and found that it tasted slightly like hay, although not in a bad way.  
  
“What is this?” asked Adam after he had tried one of the burned cubes. It was very sweet and sticky and it tasted like nuts, and roses.  
  
“Marzipan, I got it from one of my travels. In this case, from Königsberg,” said Mr Mills.  
  
“Did you travel a lot lately?” asked Adam.  
  
“Yes, a great lot,” said his old friend as he handed him a small cake with indigo dots in it.  
  
“Blueberries are good for your aiua,” he noted to which Adam had no reply. For a while, he said nothing. He just gazed over the rusty trees and the few lonely people he could see. Some of them were dressed in very peculiar ways, but Adam did not care about it. It was the season that made him worry.  
  
“What is going on in this park?” he asked after a while. “It's early September and it seems as though Fall progressed too quickly over here. It's much different only a few miles away, I've spent the entire train ride looking out of the window.”  
  
“We are not in the park, my boy. But that does not matter either. You learned some Latin and Greek for your matriculation, am I right?”  
  
Adam stared at him without answering until he realised what Mr Mills had asked. “Yes, of course. _Basic_ , I might add.”  
  
“Ah, don't worry. We can build on that. Are you married?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“That's fortunate. Your brothers are grown up by now?”  
  
“At least that's what _they_ think,” said Adam and smiled for the first time, although it was not a truly happy smile. Mr Mill's questions made him uncomfortable.  
  
“If that's not the park,” he began, not because he cared any more, but to change the topic, if there ever was one, “the how did the cabby find it? Why did he use such a strange way to begin with?”  
  
“I've sent Elio to get you. He would have come here, even if you'd have asked for the Tremont House. But do not try to distract me. Do you plan to stay in Nevada? For the rest of your life?”  
  
“Why are you asking me this? I will not leave my family, not permanently.”  
  
“Not permanently, no. But occasionally, for a while. Not too long a while, at least for _them_. Don't you want to travel, Adam? You are intelligent, loyal, and imaginative.”  
  
“Imaginative, are you certain?” asked Adam with a sarcastic laugh. As a response, the man clapped his hands and the entire picnic disappeared, along with the umbrella and the Fall. It was still rainy, but warmer, and only a few leaves were light yellow and fallen by now. There were few people still, but all of them were dressed conventionally nobody appeared melancholic.  
  
“We have now left the Soft Place, Adam, and don't deny that you have seen it all.”  
  
Mr Mills got up and dragged Adam behind him, with an unexpected force. “Come with me,” he said.  
  
“Where are we heading for, Mr Mills?”  
  
“For God's sakes, it's Robert. I told you, it's Tremont House. The cabby might not bring you there, but I sure will. You will meet an old friend there. Or an acquaintance, whichever you prefer.”

 

* * *

  
**Scene Three - _Acquaintances_**  
  
“Two, actually,” said Adam as he saw the three men sitting in the suite.  
  
“I thought we would not be as attention stealing in here,” said Charles Dickens to explain the expensive room. “Good afternoon, Mr Cartwright. It is a pleasure to see you again.”  
  
The other man Adam knew was Samuel Clemens, who just recently made himself a name as the journalist and writer Mark Twain. There was also a third man, which Adam had never seen before, and who introduced himself as -  
  
“Jules Verne. It is a pleasure to see you for the first time, Mr Cartwright. Charles and Samuel always spoke highly of you and I couldn't wait to make my own impression of you.”  
  
“Are you satisfied, Monsieur Verne?” asked Adam, who was surprised about the Frenchman's unusual interest in him, but who also did not want to reply too tamely.  
  
“Oh, yes. But I thought you were younger. You must be about my age, older than Sam.”  
  
At that Adam frowned. Why should he want him to be so young? Before he could reply, he was led by Mr Mills, from now on to be called Robert, to a chair, opposite Charles Dickens, while Robert himself squeezed himself between the two younger men on a couch.  
  
“I admit,” said Dickens to the Frenchman called Jules Verne, “that he is not exactly _young_ , but you ought to remember that age is not a matter in this choice. You two were unusually immature when selected, and you still have not matured much. I think it will be very reassuring for me to finally have an adult among your ranks.”  
  
“Among what kind of ranks?” asked Adam and scowled at the other men. “What in the world is going on here?”  
  
“That's incorrect, kiddo. What in the _Worlds_ is going on. But I am not permitted to tell you – he is,” he added and pointed at Dickens with a tumbler.  
  
“Mr Cartwright. You know that I have a very high opinion of you,” said Dickens as Adam raised an eyebrow. “But I also have to make a request. I want you to become a Caretaker.”  
  
“A Caretaker, of what?” asked Adam and Sam quickly filled a glass with Bourbon and handed it over to him, with a face that indicated he would need a drink very soon.  
  
“Of the _Imaginarium Geographica_. Don't make such a face, I will explain. Just imagine... imagine it is...”  
  
“All real,” finished Jules for him. “Imagine everything that is True is also Real.”  
  
“I don't think I can follow you,” said Adam and allowed Sam to refill his glass. The suite looked much darker by now, it was at least late afternoon.  
  
“Every imaginary and fantastical place – or at least most of them,” said Sam. “But don't imagine – consider. Consider it is all real.”  
  
“I don't think I could do that.”  
  
“Could you _Believe_?” asked Robert. “Could you? I am the only one of us, who is not a Caretaker. I am a friend of them, and I am your friend, and I will be forever, no matter what you will choose.” He took a deep breath and leaned back.  
  
“You are not only a very skilled, but also a very imaginative person and when Charles here asked me out about you, I did not hesitate for a second to recommend you as an Apprentice Caretaker. You can believe that I am here, can't you? And you saw what was not, in fact, the park.”  
  
Adam said nothing for a while. The entire situation was ridiculously unreal, like a dream that was not a nightmare, but nonetheless uncomfortable and which he would try to forget.  
  
“What is the _Imaginarium Geographica_?”  
  
“An atlas, of all these lands. They are found in what is called the _Archipelago of Dreams_ , which exists beside our _Summer Country_ ,” said Dickens.  
  
“And taking care of it means what exactly?”  
  
“It means not only to take care of _it_ but also the Archipelago itself. Your occupation would include visits to the isles of the Archipelago, both political and practical. You would get introduced to the Caretakers Emeriti in time and you would also be trained in Ancient and contemporary languages, of both Worlds, among other things. Jules and I are full Caretakers, Samuel is an Apprentice.”  
  
“And what about my father and brothers? Have you ever considered my life over _here_?”  
  
“Have you ever considered ours?” asked Sam. “We are here, after all. We all have our families and lives, and our occupation is not a prison.”  
  
“I am sorry,” said Adam. “You are right, of course. You are all here, and most of you alive?”  
  
The three Caretakers nodded, and Robert chuckled. “Most Caretakers are writers,” he said. “Some are scientists or musicians, few worked in different fields. I am keen to have an Architect among them – Architecture plays a much larger part in the matters of the Archipelago or the _Geographica_ that most people are willing to admit.”  
  
“Really?” asked Sam. “I thought the fun of it was to have a cowboy among us.”  
  
“Has anyone of you ever considered _my_ opinion on that matter?”  
  
“No, actually we didn't” said Sam. When Adam looked back at that, he ironically found that it was this exact line that, despite his anger, that finally won him over.

 

* * *

  
**Scene Four – _Back at Home_**  
  
“I wonder what that telegram said,” said Little Joe and his older brother nodded slowly. They sat near the fireplace and baked apples, in the way Charles Dickens once taught them to.  
  
“He was in such a hurry to get to Boston,” said Hoss, not turning his eyes from his apple. “I just hope it was nothing bad or dangerous. Pa seemed confused, too.”  
  
“I'm not confused,” said Ben as he walked through the front door. “Except about this activity of yours. What in the world are you doing?”  
  
“Baking apples,” said Hoss. “You want one?”  
  
“No, thank you. That's what Mr Dickens did, right? Did you think of him, or how did you get that idea?”  
  
At that the young men looked at each other and frowned.  
  
“Actually, I have no idea, Pa,” said Little Joe. “We just thought it would be right now.”  
  
“It's suits the weather,” added Hoss and Ben shrugged.  
  
“I will go to bed,” he said. “I don't think I'd want a baked apple now. And don't get to bed too late yourself.”  
  
He was worried about his eldest son's situation, but he also knew that his judgement could be trusted. He would come home safely, very soon.

 


End file.
